Narrative writing is a type of writing in which the writer tells (or narrates) a story. The narration is used in order to illustrate a point or lesson learned from the experience. The narrative can be restricted to one scene or told in a sequence, not necessarily chronologically. A common approach is to start with a particularly vivid memory or memorable experience that you have. To bring the story to life for the reader, try to describe the experience by engaging all five senses: touch, smell, taste, vision, and hearing. To start with, writing takes places in three stages: prewriting, writing, and revising. This may sound somewhat nebulous, but there is a point! Prewriting is the stage where the brainstorming and drafting takes place in. It actually may be one of the most important stages of all. You figure out what you want to write, by writing an outline of what you're going to say, come up with examples, etc. Writing is where you hash out and do the actual writing for the essay. Beware that it is not in this stage where punctuation, spelling, and grammatical concerns come in; that's reserved for revising. It is most important to figure out the structure and content of the essay by focusing on that. Revising includes the grammar and punctuation, but it's not just line editing your essay. It's also about changing the order of what you've written and evaluating it for itself. Read it aloud, let other people read it, set it aside if there's no one else there. Above all, think of ways to improve it that go beyond the surface. Here is one example of a narrative essay.
Homecoming or The Trouble with Siblings The train arrived a few minutes past five-thirty in the evening, dusk settling in. I stood on the platform, shifting my weight back and forth uneasily. As routine as coming to the train station had become with my commute to Rutgers, I always felt a sense of dread and foreboding that I could not explain coming here to pick up this particular person.
“Welcome home,” I said. I had caught sight of the large magenta suitcase before its owner. My sister emerged from the train, looking impeccable as always, in stylish clothing and perfectly groomed hair. Silently, I held out my hand to carry the suitcase down the stairs, which she handed over. She followed me down as I used one scuffed sneaker to balance it before hoisting it up.
“How're Mom and Dad?” she asked.
“Well enough,” I said. “Dad is a little tired from his shift last night, so he's a bit cranky.”
She rolled her eyes. “What else is new?”
“You're okay?” I asked, easing the suitcase into the trunk. We got into the car, and I began to drive. My sister didn't like to drive, usually having my parents, my brother or myself do it.
“I'm fine. Work's been nuts, but that's nothing new.” She tsked, “My boyfriend's fine, thanks for asking.”
It seemed I always forgot to ask about something. I said, “Sorry, been sort of preoccupied.”
“Dad not getting on your case?” she asked, giving me a side-long glance.
I shrugged, uncertain. “We don't argue as much as we used to.”
“Funny, he still likes to pick on me.” I could only shrug again, unsure of how to phrase delicately that picking fights with Dad was never a good idea. “I don't know how Mom puts up with it all these years. To stay with him all this time, and making us put up with him...I know she's afraid to leave, but how is that fair to us?” I remained silent, preferring to occupy myself with steering the car. “Does she really care about us?”
I knew that was a rhetorical question, but I answered anyway. “Are you questioning whether Mom loves you?”
“Of course she does,” she said quickly. I would always feel uneasy coming to pick her up, and usually by the car road home, I remembered exactly why.
Yet I felt obliged to try to explain things, to try to make her aware of things she hadn’t considered before. “When you first moved out to go to college that fall, I found her in your bedroom. She was sitting on your bed, crying. She missed you very much.”
She turned away to stare out into the local city. “I've heard this story before.” She sighed. “Just me, or does P’ville look more dilapidated than ever?”
I inhaled through my nose, wishing we were home. “Different generation, different culture. Dad—or Mom, for that matter—aren't going to show they care in the same ways that people our age do.
“Maybe it would help to think about how everybody's different, and what they do...maybe their motivations are different than what you think they are? Maybe you should change your expectations so people don't necessarily have to fulfill them?”
My sister's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Do you think I act entitled?” Her arms were crossed.
I hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“Whatever.” She settled into the seat and feigned sleep. Wordlessly, I welcomed the prospect of driving home in silence.
I don’t consider myself the greatest person, but there was something about my sister that brought out the vicious side in me. Despite blood ties and growing up together, I could not bring myself to care very much for her.
There was and is a sense of suffocating guilt, of failing a personal and familial duty. However, somewhere along the way, after her hypocrisy, her wild accusations of jealousy and resentment, her endless recriminations, I had reached my threshold. She did not care about us. She did not want to. It was during that seemingly mild exchange while bringing my sister home, that I decided that there was no sense in ruminating and I could only do the best I could.
A common approach is to start with a particularly vivid memory or memorable experience that you have. To bring the story to life for the reader, try to describe the experience by engaging all five senses: touch, smell, taste, vision, and hearing.
To start with, writing takes places in three stages: prewriting, writing, and revising. This may sound somewhat nebulous, but there is a point! Prewriting is the stage where the brainstorming and drafting takes place in. It actually may be one of the most important stages of all. You figure out what you want to write, by writing an outline of what you're going to say, come up with examples, etc.
Writing is where you hash out and do the actual writing for the essay. Beware that it is not in this stage where punctuation, spelling, and grammatical concerns come in; that's reserved for revising. It is most important to figure out the structure and content of the essay by focusing on that.
Revising includes the grammar and punctuation, but it's not just line editing your essay. It's also about changing the order of what you've written and evaluating it for itself. Read it aloud, let other people read it, set it aside if there's no one else there. Above all, think of ways to improve it that go beyond the surface.
Here is one example of a narrative essay.
Homecoming or The Trouble with Siblings
The train arrived a few minutes past five-thirty in the evening, dusk settling in. I stood on the platform, shifting my weight back and forth uneasily. As routine as coming to the train station had become with my commute to Rutgers, I always felt a sense of dread and foreboding that I could not explain coming here to pick up this particular person.
“Welcome home,” I said. I had caught sight of the large magenta suitcase before its owner. My sister emerged from the train, looking impeccable as always, in stylish clothing and perfectly groomed hair. Silently, I held out my hand to carry the suitcase down the stairs, which she handed over. She followed me down as I used one scuffed sneaker to balance it before hoisting it up.
“How're Mom and Dad?” she asked.
“Well enough,” I said. “Dad is a little tired from his shift last night, so he's a bit cranky.”
She rolled her eyes. “What else is new?”
“You're okay?” I asked, easing the suitcase into the trunk. We got into the car, and I began to drive. My sister didn't like to drive, usually having my parents, my brother or myself do it.
“I'm fine. Work's been nuts, but that's nothing new.” She tsked, “My boyfriend's fine, thanks for asking.”
It seemed I always forgot to ask about something. I said, “Sorry, been sort of preoccupied.”
“Dad not getting on your case?” she asked, giving me a side-long glance.
I shrugged, uncertain. “We don't argue as much as we used to.”
“Funny, he still likes to pick on me.” I could only shrug again, unsure of how to phrase delicately that picking fights with Dad was never a good idea. “I don't know how Mom puts up with it all these years. To stay with him all this time, and making us put up with him...I know she's afraid to leave, but how is that fair to us?” I remained silent, preferring to occupy myself with steering the car. “Does she really care about us?”
I knew that was a rhetorical question, but I answered anyway. “Are you questioning whether Mom loves you?”
“Of course she does,” she said quickly. I would always feel uneasy coming to pick her up, and usually by the car road home, I remembered exactly why.
Yet I felt obliged to try to explain things, to try to make her aware of things she hadn’t considered before. “When you first moved out to go to college that fall, I found her in your bedroom. She was sitting on your bed, crying. She missed you very much.”
She turned away to stare out into the local city. “I've heard this story before.” She sighed. “Just me, or does P’ville look more dilapidated than ever?”
I inhaled through my nose, wishing we were home. “Different generation, different culture. Dad—or Mom, for that matter—aren't going to show they care in the same ways that people our age do.
“Maybe it would help to think about how everybody's different, and what they do...maybe their motivations are different than what you think they are? Maybe you should change your expectations so people don't necessarily have to fulfill them?”
My sister's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Do you think I act entitled?” Her arms were crossed.
I hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“Whatever.” She settled into the seat and feigned sleep. Wordlessly, I welcomed the prospect of driving home in silence.
I don’t consider myself the greatest person, but there was something about my sister that brought out the vicious side in me. Despite blood ties and growing up together, I could not bring myself to care very much for her.
There was and is a sense of suffocating guilt, of failing a personal and familial duty. However, somewhere along the way, after her hypocrisy, her wild accusations of jealousy and resentment, her endless recriminations, I had reached my threshold. She did not care about us. She did not want to. It was during that seemingly mild exchange while bringing my sister home, that I decided that there was no sense in ruminating and I could only do the best I could.
It was really all anyone could do.